


exquisite corpse

by lordelannette



Series: Dark Steve Rogers Fics [7]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Body Horror, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Dark Steve Rogers, Horror, Innocent James "Bucky" Barnes, M/M, Murder as Art, Murderer Steve Rogers, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Prison Escape, Serial Killer Steve Rogers, Top Steve Rogers, Violence, body dismemberment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:13:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24157183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordelannette/pseuds/lordelannette
Summary: Sometimes a man grows tired of carrying everything the world heaps upon his head. The shoulders sag, the spine bows cruelly, the muscles tremble with weariness. Hope begins to die.In this world, Steve kills chasing after the warmth he desires most, while a nameless, blurred face haunts his every living moment— a face that he soon learns belongs to Bucky Barnes.Or: Steve Rogers Serial Killer AU
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Dark Steve Rogers Fics [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1457959
Comments: 57
Kudos: 183





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes a man grows tired of carrying everything the world heaps upon his head. The shoulders sag, the spine bows cruelly, the muscles tremble with weariness. Hope of relief begins to die. And at that point, a man must decide whether to cast off his load or endure it until his neck snaps like a brittle twig in winter. 

That was the situation in which he found himself in just months after he turned twenty six. Although he certainly deserved everything the world had thrown his way-- and torments after death  _ far  _ worse than any the world could threaten-- he found that he could no longer bear the weight. 

And that year, he realized that he didn’t  _ have  _ to bear it. He came to understand that he had a choice. 

His name is Steven Grant Rogers and from the age of twenty six, to the age of thirty one, he killed a total of thirty three men and women down the eastern coastline of the US. He only stopped because they caught him and threw him into prison to rot. Not that he blamed them, no, because all the time that he was in prison, he knew that if they were to ever let him out, he would continue killing. 

But he also knew they would never let him out. 

His victims had all been transients in the city: friendless, hungry, drunk, and strung out on whatever drugs they could get their filthy hands on. Even more, they were mostly always young. Teenagers, mainly. The oldest that Steve had ever gotten his hands on was a woman who had been the same age as him at the time-- thirty one. He gave them the things they needed. Good food, liquids, a warm place in bed with the few pleasures Steve’s body could provide for them. In return, all that Steve asked for in return was their lives. Sometimes they appeared ready to give those just as easily as anything else. 

He killed most of the thirty three by cutting. By severing their major arteries with a knife or a razor after they were insensible from one too many drinks that Steve shoved their way. He killed them this way not out of cowardice or from a wish to avoid struggle-- because he was large and never took people that were bigger than him-- rather, he killed them by cutting because Steve appreciated the beautiful objects that their bodies were. The bright ribbons of blood coursing over the velvet of their skin, the feel of their muscles parting like soft butter. He drowned two in the bath, and choked one with the laces of his own Dr. Marten boots as he laid in a drunken stupor. But mostly, he killed them by cutting. 

That’s not to say he turned them into pieces for pleasure. He found no joy in gross mutilation or dismemberment, not then. It was the subtle whisper and slice of the razor that appealed to him. He liked his bodies as they were, overgrown dead dolls with an extra weeping crimson mouth or two. He would keep them with him for as much as a week, until the smell in his apartment grew too obvious. Steve didn’t find the odor of death unpleasant, rather, it was the smell of cut flowers left too long in stagnant water, a heavy sickish sweetness that coated the nostrils and curled into the back of his throat with every breath. 

But the neighbors complained and he would have to create some excuse or another about the plumbing backed up (Humiliating, and ultimately futile, it was a neighbor who called the police in the end). He put up oil diffusers and air fresheners because he would leave a body in the armchair in the center of his living room so that when he went to work, he would return and find the body waiting patiently for him to come home. Steve would take the body into his bed and cradle the creamy smoothness all night. For a day or two days or a week Steve wouldn’t feel so alone. Then it would be time to let another one go. 

Steve would use a saw to cut them in half at the waist, to separate the arms from the torso, to bisect the legs at the knee. He would wrestle the segments into black bags of garbage, where their odd angles and powerful stench might be disguised, and dump them in various dumpsters across town. He would drink whiskey until his apartment spun. He would vomit in the toilet and sob himself to sleep, having lost at love once again. Over and over. 

But now, he sat in a horrid cell across the country in Folsom State Prison, a place that supposedly offered maximum security. He’d looked around his cell without much interest when they first brought him in two years ago. He knew he was classified as a Category A prisoner (D being the most docile sort; and A was, of course, the ravening killer). He was dangerous and the public had been quick to paint him as the ravening killer-- which, they were right in doing so. His trial had been a legal circus of the craziest sort. The possibility of his escape was deemed highly dangerous to the public so they tried to throw him into the deepest hole and threw away the key. 

He received no visitors without approval but Steve didn’t care because all he’d ever had was his ma and she was long dead and gone now. He didn’t leave for recreational periods or educational classes due to his own choices. Instead, he chose to endure a light burning constantly in his cell, all day, all night, until the outline of it was seared into his corneas. All the better, he thought then, to stare at these hands stained in blood. 

Aside from the blazing bulb and his guilty hands, he had an iron bed bolted to the wall covered with a thin lumpy mattress, a rickety table and chair, and a toilet in the corner to piss in. He had all of these things inside a stone box of a cell measuring six by eight feet. The glory, at least, was that he was considered too at-risk for having a cellmate. So isolation it was. 

He wondered how many prisoners realized that the wall with the doors had an extra half inch that ruined the near-perfect box he lived in. When he looked at the imperfect wall for too long, which was the only way he could look at it, the wrong geometry began to hurt his eyes. For more than a year the imperfect square tormented him. He visualized all four walls grinding in, cutting off that dreadful extra half inch, beginning to crumble around him. Then gradually Steve got used to it, and that chilled him as much as the torment had done. He’d never liked getting used to things, especially when he was given no choice in the matter. 

Once they realized he wasn’t going to make trouble, he was given all the notebooks and pencils he wanted. He hardly ever left his cell except for solitary exercises and showers; meals were always brought to him by silent guards with faces like the judgment at the end of time. To them, Steve could do no harm with his pencils apart from driving one into his own eye, and Steve wore them down too dull for that possibility. 

Steve filled two dozen notebooks his first year, then three his second, filling blank white pages with sketches that always flashed behind his eyelids; chopped limbs, severed arteries, the inside of a gutted stomach and pulled out guts. He drew his cock buried to the hilt inside of a body that was perfected-- a body that Steve had never managed to find yet could somehow draw it straight from memory. It was no shock to find that he had a preference. Male, young, pale skinned, smaller than Steve. He filled notebooks full of this mystery boy who had no name, no face even, in Steve’s mind. But Steve loved him more than ever, longed for that presence beyond capacity. Perhaps that’s why none of the other people had done it for him. Perhaps that’s why he’d been so thrilled to slice their skin with his knife, hacking them to pieces, trying to fix the imperfections that were always so loud, so demanding. 

The young man was only alive in Steve’s notebooks. And it was through the blank pages, the pages he made come alive stroke by stroke, that he was once again reminded of the loneliness that had no discernible beginning and no conceivable end. 

Steve no longer wanted to know why he had done the things he had done, because he knew. There was no excuse for random murder, even though he had learned long ago that he didn’t need an excuse for anything. He needed only reason and the reason had always been there: the  _ art _ . He’d chosen females with long brown hair that rested along their shoulders; he’d picked people with blazing blue eyes that shone in the light; people with skin that was pale and seemed to accentuate the golden hue of Steve’s own skin. People with a waist that could be squeezed between Steve’s large hands. Long legs, tall-ish, with a slim, lean build. The sharp line of a jaw. Steve had only ever let himself fuck the men because entering a woman had never been it for him. A warm mouth, however, was a warm mouth no matter the gender. 

In all of the bodies, and all of the blood, he always got flashes of the boy. His angel, his savior. 

Steve’s hands may have itched for a blade, for the warmth of fresh blood, for the marble smoothness of flesh three days after death but what his hands craved more than anything was to finally feel the pulse of a living soul right by his side, in his arms. And  _ oh _ , what he would give to have the boy right by his side. Finally, after all this time.

But he was stuck here, living out the rest of his days. 

Or so he thought. 


	2. Chapter 2

When Steve was thirteen, he would lie on his back and relax his muscles slowly, limb by limb, fiber by fiber. He would imagine his organs turning to a bitter soup, his brain beginning to liquefy inside his skull. Sometimes he would drop red colored juice down his chest and let the fluid run down the sides of his ribcage and pool in the hollow of his stomach. Even at such a young age, he tried to escape what seemed to be a hateful prison of flesh.

After doing that for a time, he began to feel certain changes in his body. He never fully managed to make his spirit separate completely from his flesh --which was probably good because then it wouldn’t have come back-- but he achieved a hovering state between consciousness and void, a state where his lungs seemed to stop pulling in air and his heart to stop beating. Steve could still sense a subliminal murmur of bodily function, but no pulse, no breath. 

In prison, Steve had all the time in the world to keep repeating the motion, perfecting his craft. It took him two years for Steve to realize that his talent could be put to another use, one that would allow him to someday hold a real corpse again, rather than pretend to be one. 

He spent most of his time lying on his bunk. He breathed the heady, meaty smell of hundreds of men eating and sweating and pissing and shitting and fucking and living together in cramped, dirty quarters, often with only one chance to shower each week. Steve closed his eyes and listened to the rhythms of his own body, the paths of his blood, the sweat beading on his skin, the steady pull and release of his lungs, the soft electric hum of his brain and all its tributaries. He would have to be dead enough to fool the guards and the doctor. He knew it could be done. And he thought he could do it.

* * *

One day he deliberately gashed his forehead on the metal bars of his door. Telling the guard that he’d tripped and banged his skull earned him a trip to the infirmary. He was put in handcuffs and leg irons the entire time, but he managed to have a look around as the doctor approached. 

He was an older gent, with dark brown hair that was starting to grey at the temples. His lab coat was maddening white which only made the black inscripted _George Barnes, MD_ pop that much more, catching Steve’s eye. Surprisingly, the man didn’t look wary as he approached, as if he’d become numb to it all-- the men like Steve. 

After he was stitched up, he was led to a side room where Dr. Barnes said that he would undergo blood work since he hadn’t had his records updated years before he'd been brought to this hell hole. It was an office of some sort, which shocked Steve, but he could do nothing more than be pushed into the chair by the guard. A needle was stuck in his arm and while Steve normally would have jumped on the chance to watch, his eyes found interest along the doctor’s desk. 

The doctor was normal, by all accords. Multiple fancy degrees on his wall, a window that actually had a view, plants in stupid fucking pots, family pictu-- 

Uncontrollably, Steve leaned forward. His breath got sucked from his lungs, his blood froze, his eyes widened. 

The guard slammed Steve’s back into the chair. “Don’t you fucking move again, inmate.”

Steve ignored him-- the pounding in his chest was too great-- and so did Dr. Barnes. 

“He’s clearly shackled and chained. You do not need to be so harsh,” Dr. Barnes addressed the guard. Then, sickeningly kind blue eyes landed on Steve. “No worries, Mister Rogers.” 

For a moment, Steve only blinked at the doctor. It had been a _long_ time since he’d had actual conversation directed at himself. From someone… civilized, nonetheless. 

Steve knew the game. Act right, then they don’t look at you like the animal you are. They see the human side that was killed off and something inky black and damning took its place. He knew how to play. After all, he'd done it before. 

His eyes shifted back to the picture frame partially hidden from his view. “Thanks,” he said. The word felt weird on his tongue. “It’s just... been so long since I’ve seen my own family. Was kinda hoping I could look at yours for a bit of normalcy, y’know?” 

Even more ridiculous than Steve’s words, the doctor’s gaze softened even further. “Well there’s nothing wrong with that.” Then, Dr. Barnes reached out and plucked one of the picture frames from off his desk, the one Steve had eyeballed. He angled it toward Steve and greedily, Steve’s eyes raked over it, landing on the person he had spotted earlier. His throat tightened. 

It was a boy… either a late teen or in his early twenties. His brown hair was long, curving past a jaw that was all sharp angles and pale skin. Blue eyes smiled at Steve through a shield of glass, almost as if the glass was trying its hardest to protect the boy from Steve, as if it _knew_. Steve’s eyes trained on where Dr. Barnes’ hand grasped at the boy’s arm. He could make out each indent where the doctor’s fingers curved into the gentle curve of the boy’s shoulder. Steve could imagine the bruises against that white skin, bruises that Steve longed to lick, to suck, to make his own. 

In his prison-issued shoes, Steve’s toes curled. His own fingers screamed to trace over the boy’s face. 

“It’s a nice picture,” he said, hearing the throaty tremble in his voice that was nonexistent to the other’s ears. 

"Thank you, Steven."

Steve shifted in the chair, biting the inside of his cheek at hearing his proper full name. He bit until he tasted blood. But looking back at the boy-- _his_ boy-- the mixture of blood on his tongue and the fire in his veins, had something strong and powerful boiling up inside of him. He’d never experienced it before and he knew he couldn’t leave without at least learning of his boy’s name. He had a face and that face needed a name. 

“He looks like you,” Steve lied, nodding to the frame and briefly cutting to meet the doctor’s gaze only to pull away a second later. “Is he George Jr.?” 

The doctor chuckled. “Oh heavens, no. My son’s name is James, but we’ve called him Bucky all his life. James Buchanan, named after my dad.” 

_Bucky._

Steve chanted the name in his head. He was desperate to say it aloud, to hear it roll from his tongue like the holiest of waters, but that could wait until he was locked away in his cell. 

“You must be a busy man with two teenagers,” Steve mused. He couldn’t find the power to tear his gaze away from Bucky, tracing the soft line of his throat, mesmerized at the pink, plump cupid bow lips that were so inviting. 

Another chuckle spilled from the doctor’s mouth. “Sometimes, yes. I always credit them for giving me grey hair at the age of forty. But no, Bucky’s been out of the house now for a few years. He goes to Pratt up in New York.” 

Steve’s brain hummed. So much information… he cataloged every piece. He wanted more-- _so much more_ \-- but Dr. Barnes was pulling the picture frame back and he had a full vial of blood in his free hand. Steve hadn’t even realized he’d been bandaged up. 

“Well, Steven, we’re all done for now,” Barnes said. He was giving Steve a not-smile that was just lips thinned together, a wanna be grin. “I’ll call you in sometime next week so we can discuss your bloodwork.” 

The guard hauled Steve up immediately. He was rough, rattling Steve’s teeth as he was picked up, but Steve used the movement as an advantage for seeking out Bucky’s picture again. He caught sight of his angel and smiled. Just as the guard began to pull him away, he murmured, “Thank you doctor.” 

Barnes smiled but _oh_ , if he only knew. 

* * *

His hand was rough around his cock but he was still pumping himself. His eyes were closed shut, head tilted back, and he envisioned his angel right there beside him. 

When he came, he cried Bucky’s name.

* * *

Steve heard the hollow rattle of metal against stone and recognized it as the door of his cell opening. A gun cocked, and footsteps echoed against the cold stone. “Rogers, you try anything funny and I’ll put a bullet in your head. Get up. Now.” 

Steve’s muscles didn’t tense, his eyelids didn’t flutter. If the guard did shoot him, he wondered if he would feel the bullet tunneling into his flesh. 

Steel bracelets snapped around his wrists and then, callused fingers checked his pulse. 

“I think he’s dead,” one of the guards said. 

“Rogers? Dead? Can’t be. He’s like a cat, only he’s got thirty three lives to spare.” 

“Shut up, Rollins. He isn’t breathing and I don’t feel a pulse. We need to radio the infirmary.”

* * *

Steve strained to plug back into his nervous system, to regain control of his muscles and bones, but it was the stainless steel blade that sliced him deep into the left pectoral muscle of his chest that his eyes flew open. The pain burst through him and sang through his nerves like an electric shock, and pulled him all the way out of death’s reach. 

His gaze met the muddy color of some unknown doctor. Steve rose his hand, grabbed the doctor by his thinning hair, and drew him down towards him. His other hand seized the scalpel and wrenched it from his wrinkled grasp. The blade slipped out of his chest incision and slid across the doctor’s palm. The doctor’s mouth fell open in amazement or agony-- Steve couldn’t tell. 

Before the doctor could react further, Steve drew back the scalpel and plunged it into one of those muddy eyes. Hot bloody fluid spilled over Steve’s knuckles. The doctor sagged forward, driving the blade deeper into his own brain. 

Steve took a deep breath and allowed the air to fill his lungs once again. The iron tang was heavy in the air, smelling just like home, making him smile. 

The eye socket sucked sensually at the scalpel as Steve pulled it out. He would have left it there but he would need a weapon when he left… whatever this place was. It certainly wasn’t the prison. A quick glance around the room and he managed to find a folder on a nearby table with the name of a hospital clear across the front. He must have been transported for an autopsy, he realized but also thankful that the dead man wasn’t Dr. Barnes. 

And wasn’t that a strange thought? A thought he had no time dealing with. 

His head turned around to eye the door that seemed to be the only way out. He was naked and bleeding profusely and if the workers of this hospital knew he had been brought in for an autopsy, his face would be freshly imprinted on their brains. Still, he would have to brazen his way through. 

Steve put on a pair of rubber gloves and raked through cabinets and drawers, found a first-aid kit and packed his wound with cotton, then taped gauze over it. Surprisingly, the doctor’s lab coat was hung on a peg near the door, and he’d died in green scrubs. He gave one last look to the man before he slipped off his shoes and socks, then shoved his feet into the man’s ugly rubber-soled loafers. It was a snug fit but it would have to do. 

With little difficulty, he managed to remove the man’s scrubs. In the pant pockets Steve found the man’s wallet, keys, and phone. He tossed the device but kept the wallet and keys. The man’s scrubs fit just right but they were, of course, quite bloody, but beneath the lab coat, it would all go unnoticed. For an added effect, Steve plucked the bloodied glasses hanging around the man’s throat and put them on. He feared it would turn the room into a blurred migraine but surprisingly, his vision seemed sharper, the edges of things more clear than before. 

He found a mirror on the wall. Though most of the prisoner’s hair was supposed to be kept short, he hadn’t seen a barber in months. His dark blond hair was shaggy, past his ears and flopped into his eyes. Steve used a pair of surgical shears and began hacking away. He cut it short, but just long enough that he could still run his fingers through it. The razor allowed him to get rid of the beard and for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime, Steve couldn’t recognize his reflection. 

_Perfect_. 

In a blur, Steve was out of the room. 

* * *

The car radio read 5:14pm when Steve finally spotted George Barnes leaving the prison. He pulled down his baseball cap low over his eyes, grip tight around the steering wheel, and watched as the doctor made his way to a black Jaguar. 

Barnes got in, started the car, reversed, and drove out of the parking lot. 

Steve pressed his foot onto the gas pedal and followed after him.

* * *

In the pitch black of night, Steve climbed over the Barnes’ tall backyard fence. He’d watched them for hours-- the happy family that’s missing member was jarring in his mind even though he already knew where Bucky was. 

Well, not exactly. 

He almost laughed when he reached the backdoor and found it unlocked. When he crept in, he didn’t fear them coming downstairs because he’d watched them go to bed one by one. Still, he was quiet as he ransacked the place, moving from room to room until he found what he desired. 

It was in a downstairs study room that Steve found the Barnes’ folder of important papers. He spotted Pratt Institute and he rifled through every page he could find. He found school bills, an honorary Dean’s List announcement, and there-- _finally--_ was a paper that didn’t have Pratt across the top, rather it was a confirmation on an apartment in Brooklyn that listed George Barnes as the renter. It was a current bill that marked the last payment paid only a few weeks ago.

Steve grabbed the paper and left. When he returned to the vehicle he’d parked on the street, he carefully read the address on the paper and typed it into the GPS. He stuck the key in the ignition and the car came to life. 

In the darkness, the headlights were suns all on their own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning! In this chapter there is heavy use of violence and descriptive imagery of murder. Also, sex.

In Denver, Steve cornered a gas station attendant. He was a young-ish male with a shock of vibrant red hair and freckles that blemished his skin, from his forehead down to the knuckles on his slim fingers. The plastic white name tag on his unflattering uniform said his name was  _ Randal.  _

But none of that mattered when Steve backed him into a shelf full of candy bars and cigarettes. It went over with a deafening clatter. The red head stumbled backward, then sprawled in the mess. He kicked uselessly at Steve as he bore down at him and grabbed hold of his face. The red head tried to bite Steve’s hand but only managed to get a lick until Steve drove the handy scalpel into his throat and ripped it open to the collarbone. The body spasmed and a horridly splendid gurgle bled from red painted lips. 

Steve twisted the blade in his throat. In a last ditch of desperation, the redhead tried to claw his hands up Steve’s neck but he couldn’t find purchase. It was laughable at how weak the dying man was, and realizing it, Steve couldn’t help but chuckle. There was a smile on his face as Steve grabbed him by the fiery strands of his hair and smashed his head down against the tiled floor. The skull gave way with a satisfying crunch. The body bucked once more and then, it stilled for its last time. 

He’d almost forgotten. Killing the doctor at the hospital had been quick and it had all happened so fast with the promise of escape at the front of Steve’s mind. He hadn’t paid attention to the details before but now, he was instantly familiar with the thrill of a sagging weight in his arms… the rapturous glaze slowly creeping into half-closed eyes… the way the fingers would stiffen and then curl into the palms… the sweet face lost in its endless empty dream. Steve always liked watching, especially when their skin was pale enough that the tender veins showed blue at the temples and the blood smears shined like ruby silk. 

The visual was too tempting to pass up. Steve leaned over the red head and kissed him, reacquainting himself with the textures of lips and teeth, the rich metallic flavor of a mouthful of blood. He felt so good-- good enough that when Steve closed his eyes, he could envision him holding Bucky instead. Kissing Bucky.  _ Claiming  _ Bucky. 

Steve wanted nothing more than to lie down next to him on the cold floor, and play with him for a while. But he had somewhere else to be-- someone else to hold. 

Steve dropped the body onto the floor and stepped away. The thud echoed into his feet. He cleaned out the register, flipped the lights off, and was gone before the blood could vanish from his tongue. 

* * *

Inside an Indiana dirt cheap motel room off Highway 64, Steve was wired. 

On his way there, he had picked up a guest that had been eager to please right before Steve choked the air from his body with his bare hands and watched brown eyes roll into the back of the boy’s head. 

He spread garbage bags out on the floor and the bed, then, he got to it. 

He began by severing the head. The meat of the neck was tender and separated into fleshy layers beneath his blade. When he reached the spine, he inserted the tip of the knife between two vertebrae and levered them apart. At the same time he grabbed a fistful of hair and twisted the head away from the body. The spine parted with a wet snap. 

He put the head in a grey plastic Walmart bag and moved on to the extremities. The hands and feet went in the bags as well, rinsed in a bowl to remove the stains of blood, then tied up neatly as if they were gifts. 

Now came what should be the best part, the part Steve hated to rush through. Steve pressed his thumbs into the soft V of skin at the base of the breastbone, ran them down the line bisecting the torso until they slipped into the gaping abdominal wound he had earlier created. He spread the wound carefully, pulling its edges up and apart until the skin began to tear. It was very slippery going, and he had to use the knife in some places, but soon he had the body split wide. 

The freshly exposed organs wafted up at him and he lowered his face closer to the smell, where the stew of blood and everything sacred flared like a rare perfume. 

He pulled out yards of intestines that felt like small sausages in his hands, the pouch of the stomach, the hard little kidneys, the liver. All of it went into a plastic bucket resting precariously on the bed beside the body. 

Steve reached under the ribs and slit the diaphragm, stuck his hands in the chest cavity and raked out both spongy lungs, then the rubber-textured, veined knot of muscle that was the heart. He squeezed it hard as he pulled it away and not for the first time, he found himself wondering what it would be like to hold one that was beating and alive, fueled and pumping the precious thing called life.

But he craved the messiness and sacredness of transforming the body into a scooped-out shell. 

It took him hours. While he couldn’t really embrace his art since it would be too hard to clean up afterward, he managed to find peace as the knife slid through flesh and the boy parted easily with each cut that Steve delivered. He cut more and more until all that was left was the spine that joined the two halves of the body. He wrapped the halves in separate bags, the organs in a third. One by one he lugged the bags into the trunk of the stolen car he’d snagged the day before. 

It gnawed at him that he didn’t get more time with his corpse, but he had somewhere more important to be. And as Steve hopped into the vehicle, set for Brooklyn, the thought of his angel waiting for him put a smile on his face. 

* * *

Finding Bucky hadn’t been hard at all. 

He waited patiently outside of the building on Dr. Barnes’ papers and didn’t move an inch until he finally spotted him. Steve waited right out front with his dark cap pulled down low and aviators hiding his unblinking eyes and when Bucky finally exited, Steve felt the breath fill in lungs in one powerful flow. 

The picture hadn’t done him enough justice and it took every inch of willpower Steve had to not grab him then and there and let the rest of the world burn down around them. Bucky wasn’t a far cry from the family portrait but his hair was more free, tousled as he glided down the sidewalk. It made him look younger, Steve realized, and if he were to guess, Bucky couldn’t be much older than twenty-one or twenty-two. He wasn’t big by any means; slim shoulders hidden in a soft cardigan that bunched at his wrists, and thin, lengthy legs that seemed to stretch for miles in sinfully perfect tight jeans. Everything about him seemed enticingly delicate and it made Steve’s blood hum. 

Bucky seemed to be a man on a mission and left his apartment building without so much as a look back. He had an earbud in one ear that was connected to the phone in his hand but other than that, he seemed to be lost in a world of his own. A world in which Steve would soon be the center of, if he had any say.

Steve followed after him like a forgotten shadow, just a mere few steps back but always within reach. Steve soaked in everything about the young man. Bucky stopped at every crosswalk, and even if the light signaled for him to walk, he still looked both directions before crossing. When Bucky came across a musician strumming his guitar on the street, he didn’t stop to listen but pulled out a handful of bills that he bent to place into the open case, shooting the man a smile before moving on. 

Eventually, Bucky reached a coffee shop that was a few blocks over. When Bucky opened the door, ridiculously he held it open for a woman pushing a stroller before strolling on in himself. Steve didn’t enter the building, instead, he sat down at one of the outdoor tables, letting his eyes scan over the crowd of useless people. His thoughts weren’t far from Bucky and he couldn’t stop the humorous grin on his face when he realized the two were so different from one another. Where Bucky was sweet and generous, Steve was cutting and harsh. 

But as they always said, opposites attract. And in their case, they were stars set to collide and crash, ready to become a blackhole to consume everything around them. Now they just--

A coffee was placed in front of him. Steve’s eyes snapped up and his face must have betrayed his surprise because there was Bucky, pulling out a chair across from Steve and smiling shyly. 

“It’s a mocha, nothing fancy,” Bucky said as he settled. “I was hoping you’d go inside so I wouldn’t have to guess, but this will have to do.” 

Steve watched as Bucky pushed his sleeves back, exposing his thin, pale wrists. He was struck wordless by the beauty in front of him.

“I hope I’m not overstepping but you’ve been following me, right?” Bucky regarded him with those striking blue eyes, a smile still on his lips. “I figured you were just shy so I thought I’d be the one to be able to say they made the first move.” 

That smile… it was as sweet as sex, as succulent as the finest cut of meat. And it was directed right at Steve. For no one else but him. 

Slowly, the corner of Steve’s mouth drifted up. With one hand he traced the brim of the coffee in front of him, and the other, he held out to Bucky. 

“You beat me to it,” he said, breathless as he clasped Bucky’s palm. “My name’s Steve.” 

If possible, Bucky’s smile widened. Steve’s heart squeezed. “James, but everyone calls me Bucky. Pleasure to meet you.” 

Bucky had no  _ idea _ . No idea. But how could he possibly know that Steve was like a parasite that had already infected him? 

* * *

They’d barely made it past the threshold of Bucky’s apartment when they kicked off their shoes, grabbed each other, and scrambled to the bedroom. They fell in a tangle of limbs onto the bed, attacking, surrendering, and while Steve wanted to pull back and let his eyes scour every inch of Bucky laid out before him, the need for  _ more  _ was too much to ignore. 

Steve hooked his thumbs in the belt loops of Bucky’s skinny jeans and slid them down. He got his own pants undone and lowered himself on Bucky, engulfing the boy’s sleek limbs with his stronger, thicker ones. 

“You feel so good,” Bucky breathed in his ear. 

For a second, Steve was thrown. Most of the people that Steve took to bed didn’t talk to him, even when they were still conscious. But, he was reminded as Bucky’s legs wrapped around his waist, that Bucky wasn’t just another one of his bed fellows. Bucky was the person he needed, craved, and Steve almost couldn’t handle the rush of emotions that poured through him. 

Instead, Steve sought out Bucky’s mouth and sealed it with his own. He liked to kiss deep and rough but with Bucky, it felt like every nerve was on fire, tingling with a hunger that Steve used to pour passion into it-- something he’d never done before. 

He sucked on Bucky’s lips until they were raw and invaded Bucky’s throat with his tongue, licking deeper and making their mouths slick with spit. Bucky pulled Steve closer and wrapped his arms around Steve’s back. His nails dug in just slightly and the slight pain made Steve’s hips buck forward in anticipation. 

His cock was so hard that Steve feared it might rupture. What a perfect, exquisite creature Steve had found and claimed. Bucky was a gift from whatever dark gods Steve appeased with his obsessions, a splendid specimen that Steve could rip into if he pleased… 

Bucky raised his arms above his head and arched his back, shoving his ribcage up at Steve. The expression on his face was beautiful and there was so much pleasure radiating from Bucky, his eyes and mouth glinting, drawing Steve even closer than physically possible. 

Steve lowered his head and latched onto one of Bucky’s nipples. The moan that spilled from his lips was pure sin and it went straight into Steve’s groin, boiling hot. His mouth traveled lower and he licked and sucked at every inch of skin he could get his mouth on. The sweet noises kept escaping Bucky’s mouth, spurring Steve on as he dipped his tongue into Bucky’s navel, pecked the sharp juts of Bucky’s hips, nibbled the soft, sensitive insides of Bucky’s thighs, until Steve’s hands clutched at Bucky’s hipbones and buried his face between Bucky’s legs. 

Bucky shouted as Steve swallowed him. This was something Steve had never done and in an instant, Steve was lost in a world of mindblowing pleasure. The sensation of engorged tissue sliding over his tongue and filling up his throat was nearly too much and almost made Steve come right then and there. His large hands dug into the delicate meat of Bucky’s thighs and he pressed so hard into him that he could only hum thinking about the bruises that would taint Bucky’s skin in the morning-- proof of their throes. 

Bucky went very still, then a violent shudder went through his body. “Steve-- oh, Steve f-fuck, I’m gonna come-- ah--” 

Bucky tried to pull away but Steve seized those sharp hipbones again, and took Bucky’s cock deeper into his mouth. He would never taste his angel’s blood or meat, but he would not be denied this. Bucky came and it spilled over the back of Steve’s tongue, shooting warm down his throat. Bucky was making unbelievable sounds-- gasps, sobs-- and Steve wanted to roar. 

Bucky was a quivering mess as Steve pulled away and moved back up to kiss Bucky’s mouth, then his eyelids. Steve was mesmerized at the rapid rise and fall of Bucky’s chest and his eyes followed the dips and rises of Bucky’s ribs until fingers were suddenly wrapping around Steve’s cock. Bucky’s hand moved up and down, gentle at first, then faster, squeezing… only to go gentle and slow again, painfully teasing Steve. The playful little smile on Bucky’s face had Steve grinning back, right before he licked against those lips. 

“Fuck me,” Bucky gasped. “Please, Steve. I want you inside of me.” 

The noise was heaven to his ears and like an animal emerging from the shadows, ready to devour its prey, Steve picked up Bucky’s knees and pressed them into his chest. The precious furl of Bucky’s opening was hypnotizing and it drew in Steve like it was the vortex of the universe, beckoning him home. Bucky was laid bare before him, naked and trembling, and it was the symbol of trust if Steve had ever seen it. Steve’s fingers trembled as he rubbed lube over his cock and around Bucky’s hole. 

He wanted this boy,  _ needed  _ this boy, but the power that Bucky held over Steve was dangerous. Steve had never fucked someone before without killing them afterwards and as Steve pressed into the gap between Bucky’s legs, he knew that surely the urge to follow his pattern would be hard to deny. The lust in his body was like a drug and it turned Steve’s brain into a primal hunter. 

Steve’s hands gripped at Bucky’s hips as he shuffled forward, the head of his cock nestling into the tight heat of Bucky’s ass. 

“ _ Please _ , Steve. C’mon.” 

The pleas were something that Steve couldn’t deny as they spilled from Bucky’s pretty lips. It would be too easy to plunge into Bucky’s slick sleeve of delicate muscle, to lose himself in that welcoming heat without caring for the consequences and letting himself run wild. Bucky would be so beautiful painted in blood, torn open, and so delicate as the last breath would leave his body… he’d be Steve’s masterpiece in life. 

_ But _ . It would be the world to share an afterglow with someone who still breathed. Getting to hold someone that was no mere someone, but his  _ everything _ . His angel. 

Steve felt his eyes blur with tears. He wanted Bucky to stay alive, he wanted that so much. For all his desire to worship Bucky’s insides, there was a stronger longing not to hurt him at all, to slide into him and move with him and make him feel good, to hold him afterwards and listen to his breathing, to bask in the warmth that would not eventually fade away.

“Steve…” Bucky whispered, sliding his hands down to Steve’s ass and pulling Steve forward. As Steve’s cock slid in, Bucky groaned a wildly erotic sound, and Steve was gone. 

He pushed all the way in so slowly, and when he was as deep as he could go, his thumb stroked at where the two of them were joined. Bucky’s mewls and gasps were what powered him and with every jerk of his hips, their noises of pleasure got stronger and stronger. 

His hands grabbed and groped; his mouth sucked and licked at every piece of skin he could. His thrusts turned slow and deep, and the two of them stared into each other’s eyes, breathing into each other’s mouth. It didn’t seem possible that they could have something so intimate when they’d only been in each other’s presence for mere hours but what they were doing now was powerful, intoxicating, and the longer they stayed joined, the more Steve felt like he was a blessed man. All of the crimes he’d committed… the crimes he had yet to commit… if felt as if this was his reward for doing the sins he’d executed. 

Bucky was his angel, there was no doubt about that, but perhaps Bucky was a gift sent from a different god, one that was darker in nature but a god nonetheless. 

He dove deep inside of Bucky before pulling out, repeating the motion over and over until his vision started to fade at the edges. His movements turned desperate, harder, and soon enough Bucky was clenching around him, his slim fingers digging into the meat of Steve’s shoulders. 

“Oh, Steve-- f-fuck, Steve! I’m coming-- I’m--”

“Come for me,” Steve grunted, his own voice a trembling mess. “Come for me, my angel.” 

And then Bucky was. Bucky’s delicate body shuddered deliciously beneath Steve as he spilled and the tremors that raked through Bucky’s body echoed into Steve’s. Bucky was tight and quivering around his cock, beneath Steve’s hands, and he was helpless to follow after. 

With a loud roar, Steve’s hips snapped forward, buried to the hilt, and he poured inside of Bucky shamelessly. He laid down fully over Bucky’s chest and Bucky’s hand was quick to cup the back of Steve’s neck, holding him close as he rutted them together. 

It took them both a long while to come down from their high. Their heartbeats were pounding in their chests even as Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky and turned them over. Bucky pressed a wet kiss against Steve’s sternum before laying his cheek flat against Steve’s chest.

It was quiet in the room as they tried to catch their breath and every few minutes he smiled at the little pecks Bucky littered across his chest. 

“I think I’m gonna have to keep you around for a while,” Bucky eventually huffed amusedly, tilting his head up to look at Steve. Bucky’s whispering breath was warm over Steve’s nipple, while his thumb brushed the other one, moving back and forth against the bud. 

Steve reached down and traced Bucky’s lips, and they smiled at one another, their gazes locked and loaded. “That’s good,” he whispered back. “Cause I’m not gonna let you walk away from me, not anytime soon.” 

Bucky giggled before burying himself into Steve’s chest again. Steve’s arms wrapped around him and didn’t budge. Even if Bucky  _ wanted  _ to move, Steve was ready to pull him back where he belonged. 

***

Hours later, Bucky’s soft breathing was a lullaby that Steve cherished every moment of as the brunet slept. They hadn’t moved and still, Bucky was laying on top of him, his lithe body fitting easily in the opening of Steve’s legs. His hands stayed knotted in Bucky’s hair, petting him and keeping him close. He basked in the warmth that Bucky’s body created, and freely, tears flowed from Steve’s eyes. 

His angel, with him at last. 


End file.
